My soul is sick at the end of all,
Sick and sad, being weary too,
Weary of being so vain, so vain,
Weary and sad at the end of all,
And O I long for the touch of you!

I long for your hands upon my face;
Snow-cold as spirits they will be;
I wait until they bring the ring.
I wait for their coolness over my face
Like a treasure deep in the sea.

I wait to know their healing spell,
Lest in the desolate sun I die,
So that I die not out in the sun;
O bathe mine eyes and make them well,
Where things unhappy slumbering lie.

Where many swans upon the sea,
Swans that wander over the sea,
Stretch forth their mournful throats in vain;
In wintry gardens by the sea
Sick men pluck roses in their pain.

I long for your hands upon my face;
Snow-cold as spirits they will be,
And soothe my aching sight, alas!
My vision like the withered grass
Where listless lambs irresolute pass!